


Dream Catcher

by Orinoco_II



Category: Torchwood
Genre: A Matter of Trust, Action, Action/Adventure, Double-oh Ianto, Gen, No. Not the mind probe., Popstar Gwen, not an au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-06-18 17:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15491190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orinoco_II/pseuds/Orinoco_II
Summary: Ianto’s a secret agent with a license to kill and Gwen’s a popstar with legions of adoring fans.  They’re living the lives they always dreamed of…aren’t they?





	1. Chapter 1

As the last of the patrons hurried in through the main doors, Ianto Jones strode across the theatre lobby. He paused to check his reflection in the mirrored walls, adjusting his tie and the cuffs of his dinner suit. He cocked a knowing eyebrow at himself.

Collings was scurrying over, waistcoat straining over his rotund belly and eager-to-please beads of sweat beginning to form on the polished dome of his bald head. “Mr Jones,” the manager greeted him. “Your box is ready.” He was almost bowing, one arm out to direct Ianto.

“Thank you Collings.” Ianto smiled and saw his reflection smile back.

Collings lifted a rope and ushered Ianto through to the side stairs. The manager’s wheezing breaths rasped loudly in the enclosed stairwell as he led Ianto up to the nondescript door with a brass number 8 on it. Ianto gave him a gracious nod, entered his box and sat down.

“Would you like to order a drink for the interval Mr Jones?” Collings asked.

“Yes,” Ianto said. “A vodka martini, thank you Collings.”

“Of course.” Collings dipped his head in acknowledgement and left.

Ianto settled down in his seat, leaning his elbows forward on the edge of his box and scanning around the theatre. Taking out the pair of opera glasses stowed beside his seat, he trained them on the opposite box. The round lenses framed the box’s occupants: a bald man with a distinctive jagged scar running down the side of his face and beside him a beautiful blonde woman, in a midnight blue dress that plunged dramatically into her cleavage.

Ianto let the opera glasses linger for a moment over her chest. “Well, there’s something worth watching tonight, at least,” he murmured to himself with half a smile.

The theatre darkened as the house lights went down and the first notes of the overture began to play. Ianto swept round the theatre with his opera glasses – eyes alert to every face – before coming back to rest on the opposite box. The curtain rose and the play began. Ianto glanced briefly down at the actor’s opening monologue. When he looked back at the opposite box, the man with the scar had a sniper rifle aimed at the stage.

Sinking back into the shadows of his own box, Ianto replaced the opera glasses and slid his gun from the holster concealed beneath his jacket. Deftly, he screwed the silencer onto its barrel before getting up and leaving his box. He held the gun low, trigger finger ready and senses on high alert. Spotting an usher in the corridor, he ducked out of sight.

He walked on soft soles around the back of the theatre, the floorplan lodged in his memory. Box 5. The brass number hung innocuously on the plain door. Slipping inside, Ianto saw the back of the bald man’s head, his eyes focused on the stage below. Ianto slowly raised his arm, trigger finger primed, when there was a quiet pop and the man keeled over.

Ianto whipped round. The woman in the dress stood with a pistol in her delicate hand. They spotted each other at the very same moment. She lifted her gun but Ianto’s instincts were quicker. His own shot popped. The woman’s eyes went wide as she stumbled backwards and out of the box.

A scream shrilled from below. Ianto took a cautious step forward and peered over the edge of the box. The woman lay on the stage, limbs sprawled and blood seeping from her head wound. The actress whose scene she had interrupted was screaming uncontrollably.

“Her performance certainly went down well,” Ianto noted, stepping back out of sight again.

Chaos reigned below him. Staff and audience members rushed about, screaming and tumbling over each other, some desperate to get out, others desperate to get in and some frozen in panicked indecision. Ianto reholstered his gun and left the box. Referring back to the floorplan he had memorised, he located the fire exit, clipped smartly down the concrete steps and out into the alleyway that ran alongside the theatre. Adjusting the lapels of his jacket, he strode away from the scene. Behind him, sirens wailed and blue lights flashed as police cars and ambulances screeched to halt in front of the theatre.

*

MI6 Cardiff was the plainest, dullest, most unassuming office block that Ianto had ever encountered. It had nothing on London’s faux-Mesoamerican SIS building yet it was infinitely more discrete which probably worked in favour of a secret organisation. Ianto strolled into the reception area where Norris, the night porter, was nodding off behind his desk.

“Good evening Norris.”

“Evening Mr Jones,” Norris replied, jerking back to attention. He gestured to the security scanner. “Go on through.”

Ianto removed the two guns from the holsters under his jacket and passed them over the desk before walking through the scanner and collecting them on the other side.

“Thank you Norris.”

He scanned his ID on the security door and walked on through. The lift hummed upwards so smoothly that only the popping sensation in his ears betrayed the fact that he was moving. Stepping out of the lift, Ianto passed down a silent, plush-carpeted corridor to the office at the far end.

Miss Halfpenny sat behind the desk typing, her glasses sliding charmingly off the end of her nose and her auburn hair falling captivatingly forwards over her eyes. Miss Halfpenny always gave off the earnest air of a woman who did not realise how attractive she really was. 

“Good evening Miss Halfpenny,” Ianto greeted her warmly.

“Good evening Ianto,” she replied without looking up from her screen. “Causing quite a stir at the theatre this evening I hear?”

Ianto perched himself on the corner of her desk. “Well, I have always fancied myself as a bit of a thespian.”

“One part of that sentence is certainly true,” Miss Halfpenny commented drily.

“And you love it,” Ianto purred flirtatiously.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about Ianto,” Miss Halfpenny retorted crisply. “He’s waiting for you, anyway.”

“Thanks.” Ianto winked, hung up his coat and went through into the next office.

R was sitting behind his desk, jacket off to reveal his braces, sleeves rolled up and tie loose, scowling at a file in his hands. No computer on R’s desk, just a phone. It was part old-fashioned technophobe, part mistrust of technology born of a career in secret service. In his mid-fifties, R was still fit and imposing.

“What the hell happened tonight Jones?” R asked without preamble.

“I have no idea sir,” Ianto admitted.

“The woman you killed was a double agent,” R revealed. “Working for the North Koreans. Seems she knew Doyovsky was planning on selling his secrets to the British.”

“And the actress?” Ianto enquired.

“An unsuspecting pawn,” R told him. “An ex-lover of Doyovsky’s man back in Moscow.”

“So what’s your plan now?” Ianto asked.

“We wait for the fallout from this mess.” R sat forward, elbows on his desk and fingers jabbing forcefully in Ianto’s direction. “I expect to see your full report on my desk by 10 tomorrow morning Jones.”

Ianto sighed. “Paperwork.”

“I am well aware of your disdain for the rules and regulations Jones,” R said. “That’s why I said 10 and not 9.”

“Thank you sir.” Ianto stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight Jones.”

Leaving R’s office, Ianto retrieved his coat from the stand outside. “Can I tempt you away from the cruel mistress of work for a drink Miss Halfpenny?” he asked.

“I know your reputation Ianto,” Miss Halfpenny replied. “I wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for one of your lines.”

“But you could be the last,” Ianto teased.

“Goodnight Ianto.”

“Goodnight Miss Halfpenny.”

Laughing to himself, Ianto slung his coat over his arm and took the lift back down to the ground floor where he scanned back out and bid Norris goodnight as well. He was ten yards down the street when he heard the noise and turned.

The man was waiting for him again. He had the look of someone who might have been handsome once but now his clothes and military coat were torn and tattered and hung loosely from him. His face was grubby and his fingernails black when he lurched out of the shadows and grabbed Ianto.

“Ianto!” the man yelled in an American accent. His teeth were surprisingly white for a man in his condition.

“Get off me!” Ianto snapped irritably, throwing the man away from him. “I told you before, leave me alone!” He marched away.

“No, wait, Ianto, you have to listen to me!” the man shouted after him.

Ianto ignored him, feeling pent up and frustrated, and climbed into his Aston Martin which was parked up a little way down the road. As he drove off, he checked in the rearview mirror and saw the American standing in the road watching him go. When would this man take a hint and leave him alone? Who the hell was he?

*

Leaving the lift and approaching the door of his penthouse flat, Ianto froze as he realised that the piece of paper he had left wedged between the door and its frame had slipped out and was now on the floor. Taking out his gun, he silently opened the door and stepped into his apartment. In the dark hallway he could see the light on in his bedroom. He whipped around the door and saw bare legs. His eyes roamed up the endless legs to the body and face of the beautiful woman lying half-naked on his bed.

Ianto breathed a sigh of relief. “Natasha.”

“Hello Ianto.” Natasha rolled over and propped her head up on her hand. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“So I can see,” Ianto agreed.

He put down his gun and went into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of champagne that he set down on the bedside table. He began to undress as he climbed onto the bed. He leant down and Natasha met his mouth for a hot, wet kiss.

“Champagne?” Ianto offered, picking up the bottle and waving it in her direction.

Natasha stretched like a contented cat and gave one of her tinkling laughs. “You spoil me.”

Ianto shrugged a casual agreement, smiling down at her. He popped the champagne cork and a fountain champagne exploded from the bottle and down over his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Rapturous applause thundered in Gwen Cooper’s ears as she bounded off the stage at the Cardiff International Arena. Adrenalin surged to every extremity. She always got the biggest high performing to her home crowd. Even before she descended the last step, she was surrounded by her security team. An assistant handed her a towel and she slung it around her neck, towelling off the sweat that was pouring from every orifice.

Her personal assistant, Danny, fell into step beside her as they trooped through the harshly lit maze of backstage corridors.

“Gwen, darling, you were incredible,” Danny gushed. He always did. It was his job and yet he always made it sound genuine.

Gwen grinned at him. “I was, wasn’t I?” she agreed. “I was on my game tonight!”

“You were.” Danny consulted his ever-present BlackBerry. “Are you doing autographs tonight?”

“A few.” Gwen always made it sound like it was a chore but in truth she loved doing autographs – scrawling her name over and over whilst hundreds of besotted fans shrieked her name. That was what she had always dreamed of.

“Great.” Danny tapped something into his BlackBerry. “15 mins to change?”

“If they don’t mind me sweaty,” Gwen joked.

“I think some of them prefer you sweaty,” Danny said with a grimace. Danny was young but not naïve, lithe without being enviable, complimentary without being sycophantic and sexually ambiguous but definitely discrete. The perfect assistant.

“Gotta love ‘em though,” Gwen chuckled.

“Oh, and your boyfriend’s waiting in your dressing room,” Danny told her.

“Aaron?” Gwen queried.

“You have another boyfriend?” Danny asked, possibly-shaped eyebrow arching.

Gwen laughed. “No.”

The entourage reached Gwen’s dressing room door. Even scrawled in dry wipe marker on a laminated piece of card, Gwen still thrilled to see her name on a dressing room door. She paused with a hand on the door handle.

“15 minutes then?” Danny confirmed.

“And not a minute sooner.”

“Great.” Touching the earpiece wiring him up to the rest of her crew, Danny walked away issuing fast-paced instructions as he went. Most of the assistants trotted after him but two of her bodyguards took up position either side of the dressing room door.

Gwen opened the door to find Aaron sitting in her chair with his feet up on her dressing table, bottom lip trapped under his teeth as he frowned down at his phone. He looked up as she entered and gave her a lazy grin.

“Baby – you were incredible,” he greeted her.

Gwen let out a giggle and rushed up to him, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him. “You saw the show?” she asked.

“Some of it,” Aaron admitted. “Training finished late. We’ve got a big game coming up.” He sunk back down into her chair and picked his phone back up.

“Oh.” Gwen couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. Ever since Aaron had been made captain of the Welsh national team, he’d barely made it to one of her gigs. She began to peel off her sequined costume.

“Oh, come on, baby,” he cajoled, eyes still on his phone. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Gwen admitted, forcing lightness back into her mood. Even Aaron and his unsupportiveness couldn’t bring her mood down tonight. “And I’ve got you all night. I’m going to do some autographs and then we can go for drinks or something.”

Aaron sighed. “Do you have to?”

“I can’t forget my fans, Aaron,” she reminded him as she climbed into a pair of jeans. “They got me where I am.”

“I suppose.”

“And they love us together.”

“Because we look so good,” Aaron agreed.

It was true. Aaron may have been approaching thirty and old for a professional footballer but he could still pass for early twenties. Though he was a Valleys Boy through-and-through, he had an almost permanent tan, sparkling green eyes and a jawline to die for. After his breakout season for Swansea four years ago, he’d been snapped up by Arsenal for an astronomical fee and now he and Gwen had to split their lives between London and Cardiff and all the many tour stops in between. They didn’t spend much time together but when they did, it was all well-documented by the British press. They were the golden couple. The tabloids speculated wildly and frequently on when they would get married, whether or not either of them were cheating or what Gwen’s lyrics really meant. As if she actually had any hand in writing them.

“Exactly,” Gwen pulled on a top and gave him a light kiss on the nose.

There was a knock at the door and Gwen checked her watch. “Punctual as usual,” she noted, opening the door to find Danny standing outside. “No leeway with you, is there? I’m nearly ready.”

“That man’s outside again,” Danny told her.

“Oh God,” Gwen groaned. “Can't you get rid of him?”

“Toby’s dealing with him,” Danny assured her. “I just thought I’d let you know.”

“Thanks,” said Gwen. “I am this close…” She held up her fingers. “To taking out a restraining order.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Danny said. “Two minutes, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Oh, by the way, I got you something,” Aaron said when she’d closed the door. He finally put his phone down and shoved a hand into his pocket. After a short period of rummaging, he removed a jewellery box.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” Gwen clapped her hands together in glee.

“But I did,” Aaron said, handing it over.

Gwen snapped opened the lid to reveal a necklace nestled inside. A swirling ostentatious jewel sat at the end of a delicate silver chain.

“Oh my God, it’s gorgeous,” Gwen sighed. “You’re right – you definitely should have.” She threw her arms around Aaron’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you – I love it!”

“You’re welcome,” Aaron said, though it was half muffled by Gwen pressing a kiss to his mouth.

“Oh, I need to get ready,” Gwen said, letting him go. “Danny’ll be back any minute.”

A few moments later, Gwen and Aaron, hand-in-hand, were escorted by bodyguards and assistants, including Danny, out of the arena’s side door. They paraded along the roped-off fans, flashbulbs pinging as journalists called Gwen’s name and the fans screamed at them. She and Aaron paused to sign autographs as they made their way along the rope.

A bodyguard was holding open the door of a waiting car but as they reached the end of the line and made to step into it, a man in ragged clothes lunged forward from the crowd.

“Gwen!” he shouted in what sounded like an American accent.

Gwen froze and stared at him, horrified.

“Gwen – I need to talk to you,” he said. The man’s hair was lank and stuck to his dirty face. His eyes were piercing blue and betrayed a man who had not always been in these circumstances.

Gwen recoiled as he forced his way closer. “Get away from me!” she shouted.

“Alright mate, step back please,” one of the bodyguards told him.

“Gwen! Please!”

Another bodyguard joined in holding the struggling man back. Aaron grabbed Gwen and thrust her into the car. She twisted in her seat and watched anxiously as her bodyguards continued to hold onto the desperate man. Aaron still had hold of her hand and she squeezed it tightly as the car pulled away.

*

Ianto met his own eye carefully in the bathroom mirror as he neatly slid the silken knot of his tie up to his collar. Swinging on his jacket, he crept silently across his bedroom so as not to disturb Natasha who was still sleeping soundly in his bed. He closed his front door with a quiet click and headed for the lift.

Adjusting his cuffs and heading out across the underground car park beneath his building with the confidence of a man comfortable in his own skin, Ianto had almost reached his Aston Martin when he spotted the movement in the shadows.

This time he had the upper hand and overpowered the man, throwing him against the wall with a hand across his neck. Ianto pushed his gun into the side of the man’s head.

“Who are you?” Ianto growled.

“I know you Ianto,” the man said calmly. Up close, Ianto could see that the man’s eyes were dazzling and more alert than the state of his clothing and skin might suggest.

Unsettled, Ianto increased the pressure on the man’s neck. “How do you know my name?”

“Ianto - you have to listen to me,” the man replied, still unnervingly calm.

“Who do you work for?” Ianto snarled.

“Can we talk?” the man asked.

“Who do you work for?!” Ianto repeated angrily.

“I don’t work for anyone,” the man admitted.

“Then leave me the hell alone,” Ianto warned. “Or the consequences will be dire. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” The man stared at Ianto with those intense eyes; eyes clouded with desperation.

Ianto had to look away. “Good,” he snapped, removing his arm and shoving the man away. He slumped against the wall, rubbing at his neck. Ianto put the safety back on his gun and walked away across the car park.

“Ianto!” the man called after him. “Ianto please!”

*

“Ianto!” Jack could hear the desperation in his own voice.

He closed his hand a little tighter around Ianto’s unresponsive fingers and stroked his free hand through Ianto’s hair. He hadn’t put gel in it today and it was growing longer again. Ianto liked to keep his hair shorter these days but Jack always preferred when it grew out a bit and adopted its natural waves. It was curling into the nape of his neck and over his collar, exposed as he slumped unconsciously forward over the boardroom table.

“Ianto…” Jack repeated softly.

The electrodes on the mind probe were beginning to dig into Jack’s scalp. Reluctantly, he let go of Ianto’s hand and removed the probe from his head with a hiss. He turned in his chair to look across at Gwen who was similarly collapsed unconscious on the table.


	3. Chapter 3

_24 hours earlier…_

“I’m just saying,” Gwen warned. “You probably shouldn’t be shaking it like that.”

“It’s harmless!” Ianto protested, giving the small, purple sphere another shake and holding it to his ear. Nothing. It felt cool to the touch and was perfectly smooth – no sign of joints or fixings. It barely weighed anything but dropped heavily into his palm when he spun it into the air. Ianto tossed it across the boardroom table to Jack.

“I have to agree with Ianto on this one Gwen,” Jack said as he caught it neatly.

Gwen snorted into her coffee. “Surprise, surprise.”

“The scan results were negative,” Ianto reminded her with an amused grin. “Zilch. Nada. Nothing. This ball is the opposite of something.”

“Exactly,” Jack agreed, twisting the sphere between his fingertips. “By the way, did someone mention lunch?”

“I’ll see if it’s here.” Ianto stood and disappeared

Gwen plucked the sphere from Jack’s fingers and examined it again. “What’s it even made of?” she asked.

Jack shrugged. “Hard to tell. Didn’t even register as existing when we scanned it.”

“And that doesn’t ring alarm bells?” Gwen queried.

“Maybe,” Jack replied but he was distracted by something outside the door.

Gwen turned to look and a second later, Ianto appeared, carrying two pizza boxes. Jack grinned when he entered the room and Gwen couldn’t tell if her boss was grinning at the arrival of Ianto or the arrival of his lunch. With Jack, it was sometimes hard to tell where his priorities lay. For an enigmatic alien-hunting immortal, Jack was certainly ruled by his stomach.

“Meat feast or Hawaiian?” Ianto asked as he put the boxes down on the table.

“Meat,” Gwen said firmly. “Pineapple on pizza is the devil’s work. Here – you take it.”

She rolled the sphere up the table to Jack. As it rumbled slowly across the smooth table top, it emitted a quiet beep.

Ianto paused, the lid of a pizza box half open. “Did that – just – make a noise?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Gwen said slowly.

Jack placed the sphere carefully in the middle of the table and the three of them regarded it warily. Suddenly, the top popped up and the sphere sent out a pulsing shock wave. Jack ducked down under the table but Gwen and Ianto weren’t quick enough. The wave slammed into them and they immediately slumped forward limply onto the table. Cautiously, Jack popped his head back up over the table and stared at Gwen and Ianto in horror.

*

Jack pulled the scanner back and consulted the screen. Gwen’s vitals were fine, as Ianto’s had been when he checked them. Both pulses were steady and they were both breathing regularly. The two of them appeared to be in some kind of coma, eyelids flickering as though they were in a state of constant REM sleep.

“Gwen!” Jack shook her shoulders. “Gwen – come on!”

Sighing with frustration, he walked around the table and sat next to Ianto. “Ianto! Ianto!” He shook Ianto’s shoulder more roughly. “Wake up! Ianto! Someone’s touching the coffee machine!”

Ianto didn’t stir. Jack sighed again and sunk back into his chair. It was so quiet in the Hub with just the hum of equipment for company. Jack had been alone in the Hub many times before but he couldn’t recall a time when he had felt so lonely there. The two people he could rely on most in the world were unconscious on the table in front of him. There was really only one person who he could think of to turn to for help.

He took out his phone and dialled. The phone rang three times before an answerphone message played in his ear. “What a time to have your phone off,” Jack muttered as he listened to the cheerful message on the other end. The beep finally sounded. “Martha – it’s Jack. Call me when you get this. It’s urgent.”

Jack hung up, spinning his phone between his fingers as he considered the situation he now found himself in. He began scrolling through the numbers in his phone. It didn't take long. Most were useful Torchwood contacts but none seemed appropriate to phone about this. He paused over one name near the end of the list: Rhys Williams. “I’m not that desperate,” Jack scoffed to himself. “Yet.”

Putting his phone away, he picked up the device and studied it closely. It had reverted to its previous inscrutable state – a featureless mauve sphere. Dull it may be but, Jack reckoned, it also had to be fairly unique.

Reluctantly leaving the boardroom, Jack ran through the Hub to the archives. Ianto would know where to look straight away but instead Jack had to do this the lengthy way. He hunted through the shelving stacks – starting with ‘S’ for sphere - pulling out files and frantically flipping through them. He tried to put everything back where he found it but he so relished the idea of Ianto conscious and berating him that he didn’t really care.

Returning the boardroom armed with a selection of potential files, Jack settled himself down to read through them. Gwen and Ianto slept steadily on as he worked his way through the stack.

The twelfth file he opened had the photograph he had been looking for. It was in black and white but accompanied by a coloured sketch of a perfect purple sphere.

“Gotcha,” Jack grinned as he began to read the case notes from the 1940s. It detailed an incident involving a whole bunker-full of sheltering civilians who had been rendered unconscious by the sphere. Most had never recovered but those who did reported the most vivid dreams. Torchwood agents had concluded that the sphere was some form of self-defence device, knocking the user unconscious and allowing them to live out their childhood fantasies.

Jack set the file down and looked at Gwen and Ianto thoughtfully. “Where are you guys?” he wondered aloud.


	4. Chapter 4

The boardroom table was a mess of half-empty pizza boxes (Jack had eventually succumbed to the rumbling of his stomach – he _was_ human after all), wires, files, tools and scraps of paper. Jack connected up the final wire running between the sphere and the mind probe, consulted Tosh’s carefully ordered notes on the mind probe and cross-referenced them with the yellowing pages of the file on the sphere.

“Only by dying in their fantasy can the subject be returned to consciousness in reality,” Jack read for the fourteenth time. He picked up the mind probe with both hands and eyed it with a grimace. “Well – here goes nothing.”

*

Ianto fought a shiver as he followed Q over to the workbench. It was always cold in the underground workshop, hewn out of the rock far beneath Cardiff’s streets, the peat-blackened waters of the Taff seeping between the crumbling brickwork. An array of gadgets were laid out neatly along the bench. Q picked up an ordinary, if sleek, ballpoint pen from amongst them and showed it to him.

“Classic design,” she explained. “Works as a pen, but if clicked twice…” She demonstrated and the pen shot out a jet of liquid. “It shoots out a dosage of cyanide.”

Ianto took a careful step back from the wet patch on the floor and arched an eyebrow. “Handy,” he noted.

“Indeed,” Q agreed. “And this next one’s a personal favourite. I think you’ll like them.” She picked up a pair of shoes from the bench. “Ordinary men’s shoes. But there’s a sensor inside.” She slid back a panel in the sole of the shoe to show him. “Activated by a set of cufflinks.” She picked up a pair of classy silver cufflinks, demonstrating how to twist them. A hissing jet of dense smoke shot out from the back of the shoes. “Your very own smokescreen.”

“I like them,” Ianto said, wafting the acrid smoke away from his face.

“They’re in size 11,” Q told him.

“Even better,” Ianto grinned. “Have them sent to my office.”

“My pleasure.” Q pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose for the umpteenth time, chest puffed and pleased that Ianto had liked her designs. She wasn’t an unattractive woman - though a little old for Ianto’s tastes - if only she would ditch the unflattering cardigans.

After a quick perusal of the latest weaponry on offer, Ianto left the workshop and emerged blinking into the daylight, despite the grey clouds blanketing the Cardiff sky. He had taken two steps along the pavement when the American stepped out from a side street.

Ianto rolled his eyes. “Not again.”

“Just listen to me,” the man pleaded. “Please.”

Ianto regarded the desperation in his face and considered it. He couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by the persistence of the man and perhaps if he finally listened to him, he could finally get rid of him. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” the man gushed, reaching for him.

Ianto took a step back, horrified at the thought of the man’s dirty hands touching his suit. “Not here,” Ianto told him. “Somewhere public.”

Ianto marched to the nearest café with the man trailing a few paces behind. They settled into a corner table with coffees and Ianto couldn’t help but notice the looks that were being directed at them. The man’s ragged, dirty clothes hardly fit the ascetic of the upscale café. But Ianto had grown thick-skinned when it came to staring – he’d faced down terrorists and spies and megalomaniacs the world over. A few scandalised yuppies in a coffee shop couldn't faze him.

Ianto checked his Rolex. “Start talking.”

The man took a deep breath and launched into what seemed to be a rehearsed spiel. “My name is Jack Harkness,” he began. “You are Ianto Jones and you work for me. We both work for an organisation called Torchwood. This is not real.” He gestured around. “None of this is real. This is a fantasy you’ve dreamed up. You’re actually in a coma, in a boardroom at our base. I need you to wake up.”

Ianto gave a breathy laugh, amused by the fantastical notion. “And how do you propose to wake me up?” he asked.

“You have to die,” Harkness announced, as though it were all perfectly normal. “Here. In your fantasy.”

“You expect me to die?” Ianto asked, still amused but growing irritated.

“You have to trust me,” Harkness said. “I mean – doesn’t all this seem weirdly familiar to you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This, your life,” Harkness explained. “It’s all a bit - James Bond.”

“Who?” Ianto asked blankly.

Harkness shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “You just have to trust me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because…” Harkness paused and met Ianto’s eye. The desperation in his blue eyes had been replaced by something else; sadness, perhaps. Slowly, Harkness reached over the table and covered Ianto’s hand with his own.

Ianto yanked his hand back, stomach churning. “Your ten minutes is up.” Abruptly, he stood and left the café. When he risked a look back, Harkness was still sitting at the table, head in his hands.

*

Jack gasped as he removed the mind probe. He’d forgotten how painful it was. He set it down on the table and clutched at his head, massaging his fingers into his scalp. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at Ianto. Stroking Ianto’s hair, he dropped his head to kiss his temple.

“Come on Ianto,” he murmured. “You trust me – I know you do.”

His lips found Ianto’s forehead again. Resting his chin on Ianto’s head, Jack looked across the table at Gwen. Standing up, he reluctantly picked up the mind probe and braced himself as he slid it back into position and sat by Gwen’s side.

*

Even Gwen was beginning to grow sick of the saccharine chord progression and meaningless lyrics as she listened to her new single for the billionth time, playing through the oversized _Radio Cymru_ headphones clamped over her heard. She tried not to grimace at the overblown key change and instead studied her fingernails intently.

As the song faded out, Mike Phillips – local radio legend when Gwen was growing up who had turned out to be something of a disappointing middle-aged sleaze – grinned inanely at her across the radio studio.

“And that was ‘A Bucket Full of Love’ by Gwen Cooper, who we’ve been chatting to this morning,” Mike announced in his larger-than-life DJ voice. “Gwen – love the new track, love the new album. When’s it out?”

“Thanks Mike,” Gwen said, sliding her pop princess mask back into place. “The single’s out now and the album’s out next Tuesday.”

“Brilliant,” Mike boomed again. “Thanks for coming in.”

“You’re welcome Mike,” Gwen giggled. “Thanks very much.”

“Gwen Cooper,” Mike finished. “And now for something a bit different as we cross live to City Hall where I understand a rather unusual protest is underway…”

Gwen pulled off the headphones and allowed herself to be escorted from the studio by Mike’s producer. Danny was waiting in the corridor, sipping coffee from a plastic cup and looking wired. Keeping the endless round of promotional interviews running smoothly was obviously taking its toll.

“You were brilliant,” Danny greeted her as they walked off down the corridor. “Ready for the next one?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Gwen sighed.

They left through the back entrance to the studio, into an alleyway where her bodyguards were waiting with the car. As soon as the interview began, her fans had begun rushing down to crowd around the front doors. She had one foot inside the 4x4 when the American man appeared from behind a pair of large bins.

“Gwen!” he called.

“Oh god – not again,” she muttered.

“Gwen, please – can we talk?” the man pleaded. He was advancing towards her with those dirty hands; grubby, overgrown fingernails clawing at her leather jacket.

“Get away from me you nutter!” Gwen yelled, stumbling backwards into the car.

“Step back please sir,” said one of her bodyguards. He grabbed at the man, pulling him roughly back. Gwen watched the man’s face twist in agony as the bodyguard wrenched him away from the car and slammed his face into the wall. Danny shoved her further into the car and slid in beside her, hauling the door firmly shut behind them. There was a squeal of wheels as the car shot out of the alleyway. Gwen twisted in her seat to see the man hunched on the ground, his face a bloody mess.


	5. Chapter 5

Ianto knew all but one of the players at the table this evening. Firstly, there was Boyce the kid-wonder who had no social skills but could count eight decks at a glance. His internet startup had given him the means to play with the big boys at the Bayside Casino. Ianto wondered how many times he could win before he was asked not to return.

To Ianto’s left was Hal Harrington who had made his fortune in the defence industry, selling weapons to the highest bidder, regardless of ethics. His clients included private defence firms, the British government and a number of warlords and paramilitaries that Ianto’s department were currently investigating. Ianto had clocked all six of Harrington’s hired mobsters lurking in the vicinity of the table within sixty seconds of arriving.

On the other side of Harrington was Omar Tariq, a Saudi oil magnate who won so often Ianto had devoted large portions of his time to working out just how he was beating the eye in the sky. Not that Ianto himself wasn’t above a few sleights of hand himself, though tonight he was playing clean with just his eidetic memory to aid him.

The final player was a woman, possibly mid-thirties, in an exquisite teal dress with expensive jewellery to match. Ianto was never sure with a woman like her whether he should be sleeping with her or investigating her but he would certainly be keeping an eye on her. New players always caught his eye. It could be coincidence that she had joined the blackjack table with all of Cardiff’s major players on her first night in town but Ianto had never set much store by coincidences.

He pushed his chips into the box in front of him, eyeing the piles to either side of him. Apparently everyone was playing big tonight. Tariq was luring Harrington – he had to be. The two of them showing up at the same table tonight could only mean their deal was close to finalising and Tariq was out to impress Harrington by flashing his cash.

The dealer dealt out the cards, long slender fingers working quickly and expertly. The ten of diamonds and ace of hearts were laid out in front of Ianto. There was a rumble of appreciation from around the table as the dealer flipped his own cards and then doubled Ianto’s pile of plastic chips. Ianto pushed the whole pile back into the box and waited for the deal.

This time the eight and two of clubs were placed in front of him. He tapped the table for another card. Seven of hearts. Should he stand or take another hit? He tapped the table once more. Three of hearts. The dealer pushed over another pile of chips.

As he gathered the chips towards him, he became aware of a highly-scented presence at his side. He looked up to find a tall, graceful woman standing just a little too close.

“You seem to be on something of a lucky streak,” she greeted him, her voice low and barely above a whisper.

Ianto raised an eyebrow, his gaze wandering up and down her long limbs and figure-hugging dress. “So it would seem,” he agreed, dumping his chips back into the box without taking his eyes off her.

The woman held out a hand. “Melanie Tiffin,” she introduced herself.

Ianto shook her hand. “Jones. Ianto Jones.”

He let his hand linger. Melanie’s hand was cool, slender and soft. Ianto smiled and she smiled back, leaning in a little closer.

Five winning hands later, Ianto and Melanie burst through the door of a hotel room above the casino. Hands and lips roamed hungrily as they scrabbled at each other’s clothes. Ianto pinned her up against the wall inside the door, dragging his lips over her throat as she arched her head back invitingly.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you Ianto,” Melanie gasped, clutching tightly at Ianto’s biceps.

“You’re CIA,” Ianto announced without breaking lip contact, his hand sliding up Melanie’s thigh beneath her dress.

“How did you know?” Melanie asked, sucking on his earlobe.

“My office has been tailing you for months,” Ianto explained.

“And that doesn’t put you off?”

“On the contrary,” Ianto purred, lunging for her lips once more.

She laughed as she spun him around and they stumbled further into the room, collapsing onto the bed as they undressed one another.

Later that night, Ianto lay awake staring at the ceiling. Melanie slept curled into his side, her chest gently rising and falling against him. Ianto never slept much these days. Too many enemies and too many deaths on his conscience for sleep to claim him. Easing himself away from Melanie, he slipped out of bed and into the bathroom.

He turned on the taps and lowered his head into the sink, splashing cold water over himself. When he raised his head, Ianto jumped violently as he caught sight of a reflection in the mirror.

Harkness.

This time, the American had the upper hand. He grabbed Ianto’s shoulder, twisted him around and pushed him against the wall. And then Harkness kissed him.

Ianto shoved him forcefully away. “Get away from me!”

Melanie appeared in the bathroom, the fluffy hotel dressing room an odd juxtaposition to her drawn gun. “What the hell is going on?”

“He’s a double agent!” Harkness suddenly shouted.

“No, I’m not,” Ianto protested, completely thrown. “I don’t know who this guy is…he’s some freak who’s been following me around.”

“I believe you,” Melanie told him, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Because I know you’re not the double agent around here. Sorry Ianto.”

Two shots rang out, puncturing the stillness of the Cardiff night.


	6. Chapter 6

Ianto woke with a gasp, flinching at the pain that shot through his neck muscles as he tried to sit up. He rubbed at his neck with one hand and a small sore patch on his forehead with the other. Looking up with bleary eyes, he saw Gwen asleep on the table across from him. His mouth was dry and his back was aching. What the hell had happened to him?

Pressing his thumbs deeper into his neck, he turned in his chair to see Jack lying prone on the floor, blood seeping from a rapidly healing bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. Dazedly, Ianto pushed his chair back and went to kneel beside Jack, gently removing the mind probe from his head.

The wound closed fully with a sucking noise that might have been off-putting had Ianto not heard and seen it too many times before. A few seconds later, Jack lurched upwards, inhaling noisily. He blinked a few times. When he turned and saw Ianto beside him, his face cracked into one of his most blinding grins.

“You’re back,” he announced, yanking Ianto's head towards him and planting a firm kiss in the centre of his forehead.

This was getting weirder. “What the hell happened?” Ianto asked. “I feel like I…had a dream about you.”

“Something like that.” Jack shook his head like a lion shaking off flies and sprung to his feet. “I've got to try it on Gwen again now.”

“Try what?” Ianto asked, still sitting on the floor and utterly confused. “What’s happened?”

“You were unconscious,” Jack explained as he grabbed the mind probe. “Trapped in a fantasy world. I had to go into your fantasy and get you out.”

“My fantasy,” Ianto repeated. He walked his thoughts back, following hazy threads, and then…coloured as he remembered. “Oh God,” he groaned. “You were in there, weren’t you? In my dream.”

Jack grinned again. “Yeah.”

“And I was…” Ianto trailed off. It was coming back with such clarity now. All those one-liners; all those women. He’d been far more Roger Moore than Daniel Craig than he might have hoped for.

“James Bond,” Jack finished, his grin widening. “Yeah. Very original.”

Ianto coughed, adjusted his tie and looked up at Jack from the floor with what he hoped was an sanguine expression. “Where’s Gwen?” he enquired.

“Oh – you’re gonna love this,” Jack laughed.

*

It was strange, walking around inside someone else’s mind. Jack lifted his hand to his face and examined the disgustingly dirty fingernails, wondering if his body in the Hub was lifting its hand too. He also wondered whether it was the dream sphere, the mind probe or his own consciousness that had chosen to dress him like a tramp. A less conspicuous outfit would have been more helpful. Still, at least he had no sense of smell in here.

He was standing by the driveway to a large house somewhere in Cardiff’s leafy suburbs. It was set back from the road, up a gravel drive. An elaborately spurting fountain rose from the turning circle that was ringed in perfectly trimmed box hedges. A set of towering ornate black gates with keypad entry barred his way into the drive. Gwen had certainly dreamt herself up a nice pad.

He felt it suddenly. That tingling on the back of his neck and slight fluttering in his stomach that preceded Gwen’s appearance in her own dream. It had been the same in Ianto’s mind too.

A black Lexus SUV with tinted windows turned into the street. Jack shrunk back into the hedge as the car slowed, rolled over the low curb and came to a stop in front of the gates. One of Gwen’s burly bodyguards stepped out of the car and approached the keypad, leaving the passenger door open.

Jack took the opportunity to spring forward and shove his head over the back of the passenger seat. He ignored the twinge of pain he felt when Gwen recoiled in fear.

“Gwen – please listen to me,” he begged.

He felt hands hauling at the back of his coat.

“That is it mate,” Gwen snapped. “I am calling the police.”

“No…” Jack was trying to speak but he was being pulled away. Floating now, he couldn’t feel the sensation of hands on him anymore as he began to fall, sounds fading and muffling and merging into one around him.

*

Jack’s eyes sprung open and he jerked upright as though waking from a bad dream. He gingerly took off the mind probe, wincing as he did so.

“It’s no good,” he said. “She won’t even talk to me.”

“Why don’t I have a go?” Ianto suggested.

“It’s dangerous,” Jack told him. “If anything happens to you in there…”

“I’ll be careful,” Ianto assured him. “Run at the first sign of trouble.”

Their eyes met for a moment. Jack was clearly torn between wanting to protect Ianto and wanting to save Gwen. Ianto waited patiently. “Ok,” Jack finally relented. He passed Ianto the mind probe. “It takes a while to find yourself. Just concentrate really hard on Gwen and her thoughts should come through.”

Ianto took a deep breath, slotted the mind probe onto his head and closed his eyes.

*

Eddie was late again. He was really the only man Gwen Cooper was happy to wait for. She sat on the uncomfortable sofa outside his office drinking cheap coffee and flipping through an out of date fashion magazine. Eddie Roland was her manager and one of the five ‘stars’ who made up Five Star Management. Some people might think the five stars referred to the level of service but, after six years, Gwen knew better.

When the lift pinged, she looked up but sighed despondently when she saw that it was not Eddie but an unknown young man in an unusually smart three-piece suit. She returned her bored gaze to her magazine.

The man in the suit stopped beside her. “Gwen Cooper?” he enquired.

“Yeah?” Gwen acknowledged, looking up. The man would have had to have been living under a rock not to know that she was Gwen Cooper.

“Ianto Jones,” the man introduced himself. “So glad I caught you.”

“You are?” Gwen replied, confused, wracking her brains to think if she had heard of anyone named Ianto Jones before.

“Yes. I’m a publisher.” Ianto perched beside her on the sofa and handed over his card. “Interested in your autobiography.”

“I haven’t written an autobiography,” Gwen said.

“Not yet, you haven’t,” Ianto agreed. “But I think there’s a market for one. Can you meet me to discuss it further?”

“I don’t really run my schedule,” Gwen explained.

“No, of course not.” Ianto smiled. “It’s Danny I need to speak to, isn’t it? I’ll set something up. Great talking with you Gwen.”

He gave another smile, stood up and walked away. Gwen twisted the business card thoughtfully between her fingers. An autobiography. She’d always fancied writing one – had, in fact, often drafted possible titles for one, veering between witty puns, heartfelt schmaltz and insider jokes. Yes, she thought – an autobiography was a wonderful idea.

*

The offices of Jones and Jones Publishers weren’t quite what Gwen had been expecting. They were in a shabby office block in an undesirable part of town and there was nothing to suggest that they even published books, let alone had any decent clients. Still, Gwen thought – at least if it was known that there were publishers sniffing around for a deal, Eddie could negotiate some stratospheric contract with a publisher with a little more prestige.

Taking the lift the fifth floor, she was ushered into a sparse office. Ianto Jones rose from behind an empty desk to greet her.

“So glad you could make it Gwen,” he said, closing the door behind her. “We need to talk.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Gwen reminded him, taking a seat and beginning to wish she hadn’t come. She had a bad feeling about this.

“It’s not why I’m here,” Ianto said bluntly as he sat down again. “Gwen – this isn’t your real life. This is a fantasy. In reality, you’re unconscious.” He was speaking so calmly – as though all this were perfectly normal. “We work together,” Ianto continued. “You need to die in this life to get back to your real life.”

“Oh my God – you’re a complete nutter.” Gwen could feel her heartbeat speeding up as she pushed her chair back.

“No. It’s true,” Ianto insisted, half rising from his seat. “You have to trust me Gwen.”

“I’m not trusting you,” Gwen told him frankly. “What a load of bollocks. What is this – some sort of suicide pact you’ve got going on? I’ve got some crazy fans, but this is a whole new level.”

“Gwen, no, please…” Ianto pleaded.

“Stay right there,” Gwen snapped, jabbing a finger at him. She stumbled but caught herself as she wrenched open the door and bolted from the room.

*

Ianto slowly removed the mind probe and set it on the table, flexing his fingers to reassure himself that he was still here; that this was indeed reality. He rubbed at his temples and met Jack's enquiring gaze. “She won’t trust me either,” he observed wryly.

Jack sighed, sinking back in his chair and bringing his fist to his mouth, brow wrinkling in consternation. Eventually, he let out another long, loud sigh and looked at Ianto with a pained expression. “There is one person she’ll trust though.”


	7. Chapter 7

Ianto and Rhys stood side by side in awkward silence as the lift descended into the Hub. After imparting that the emergency was something to do with Gwen and that Jack would explain more when they got down there, Ianto hadn’t really been able to think of anything else to say to Rhys. Ianto, who listened and filed away all of Gwen’s mindless babbling about her life with Rhys, probably knew more about the man than Rhys would really be comfortable with but conversation wasn't really his strong point and he doubted Rhys wanted mindless small talk when there was an emergency involving Gwen to dwell on.

Reaching the bottom of the shaft, the cog door rolled back and Ianto led Rhys across the Hub and up to the board room where Jack was waiting. Before Jack could speak, Rhys spotted Gwen slumped on the table and rushed over to her.

“Oh my God, Gwen.” He knelt beside her and laid a hand against her unresponsive cheek. He glared at Jack accusatively. “What have you done to her?”

Ianto bristled on Jack’s behalf but Jack stepped up, no trace of defensiveness, doubtless already blaming himself for this despite having no hand in it. “She’s stuck in a fantasy world,” Jack explained calmly. “You need to use this mind probe to get into her dream and convince her to die. When she dies in the dream, she wakes up in reality.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes at the mind probe that Jack was holding out to him. “How do you know?” he demanded. “What if she just dies?”

“I got Ianto back that way,” Jack assured him.

Rhys stood up, hands on hips, face shifting uncertainly between anger and fear. “So why haven’t you got Gwen back then?” he asked.

Jack flicked his eyes towards Ianto. Ianto gave him a ‘nothing to lose’ tilt of his eyebrows. Jack turned back to Rhys. “We’ve tried,” Jack explained. “She won’t listen to us.”

Rhys pursed his lips as he considered this.

“We need someone she trusts to try,” Ianto said, appealing to a side of Rhys he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Well, that’s me alright,” Rhys agreed.

“Exactly,” Jack nodded.

Rhys took a deep breath and shifted himself closer to Gwen again, running a hand gently through her hair. “So how do I do it?” he asked.

*

The queue at Cardiff HMV was still snaking out of the door. Gwen didn’t mind these signing sessions – being told how great she was over and over whilst selling albums for an inflated price was never a chore – but her hand was beginning to ache from gripping the sharpie and her cheeks were straining from smiling.

The next person in the queue didn’t fit the usual mould of her fans. He was just a normal looking bloke, in jeans and t-shirt, a little overweight but with a pleasingly open face. He was clutching her latest album to his chest and seemed a little nervous.

Gwen looked up at him and smiled. “Hello love. Who’s it for?”

The man stared at her in amazement. “S…sorry?” he stammered.

“The CD sweetheart,” Gwen explained. “Who’s it for?”

“Oh right.” The man took a deep breath, obviously starstruck. He handed over the CD. “Rhys. That’s me. I’m Rhys.”

“Rhys,” Gwen repeated. “Lovely name.” She scrawled a rough approximation of her well-rehearsed signature on the case and passed it back. “There you are love. Thanks for the support.”

Rhys took the CD but didn’t move, simply standing and staring, his lips twitching as though he was trying to find the right words. Gwen saw this a lot – her fans ranged from gushing, to overly cool, to ‘trying to be memorable’, to creepy, to completely tongue-tied. She wouldn’t have put this guy into the tongue-tied category. In fact, at first glance, she would have put him in the ‘buying it for my girlfriend’ camp but then again, it didn’t do to be judgemental.

“Move along now please sir,” one of the bodyguards said, stepping in between Rhys and the desk.

“No, wait.” Rhys suddenly found his tongue. “Gwen – I know you. This isn’t real. It’s just a dream.”

Gwen’s face darkened. “Oh God. You’re in some fan club with that other bloke, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” Rhys blurted. “I’m your husband. In your real life. You have to believe me.”

Gwen was incredulous. “Husband? Are you kidding me?” This one had escalated from sweet dork to creepy nutter quicker than she had expected. “I’ve got a boyfriend, love, and even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be with someone like you, ok?”

“Gwen…” Rhys sagged, devastated.

“Come with me please sir.”

Rhys didn’t even bother to struggle as he was frogmarched away. Gwen shook away the expression in his eyes as she turned to the next fan in the queue and put her smile back into place. Perhaps she had been a little cruel with her words but it had been a long day and she had just about had enough with the weirdo stalkers.

*

Rhys had a feeling of rushing upwards out of deep water as he burst back out of Gwen’s fantasy. It felt as though someone was hammering nails into the back of his skull. He slowly took off the mind probe and wiped furiously at the tears in the corner of his eyes before Jack and Ianto could see them.

Jack was at his side in an instant. “What happened?” Jack asked. “No luck?”

“Why would I have a chance?” Rhys asked bitterly. “She’s a mega famous popstar.”

“Don’t be put off,” Jack told him firmly. “I know if there’s anyone in the world who can get through to Gwen Cooper, it’s you, ok?”

Rhys looked up at him. He and Jack had never really seen eye to eye but he couldn’t help feeling buoyed by Jack’s faith in him. Maybe that was what Gwen had seen in Jack all those months ago. The man could be charming when he wanted to, Rhys had to admit. In any case, it wasn’t as if Gwen had trusted Jack either and that had to be a bonus point in his favour. “You really think so?” he asked hopefully.

“I know so,” Jack assured him. “You need to try again.”

Bracing himself for the pain, Rhys reluctantly put the mind probe back on.

*

The atmosphere in the hotel was buzzing. Gwen strolled through the after party in a red dress that was slit and tapered in all the right places, hanging onto Aaron’s arm. He always looked incredible in a tux.

Photographers snapped from all angles. She grabbed another free champagne from a passing tray and paused to pose for a photo with a singer from some new boyband. He barely looked old enough to be shaving but Gwen was feeling benevolent after her multiple wins earlier. Best album, best single and best video. She had truly been crowned the queen of pop tonight.

Moving on, she tipped her head back and drained her glass of champagne. Taking another few steps, she stumbled against Aaron, her head suddenly feeling light.

She steered Aaron out of earshot of the journalists. “I think I need a bit of fresh air,” she told him.

“Oh, you want me to..?” he asked.

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Gwen assured him, patting his arm. “I’ll be back soon.”

Smiling and waving and pausing for a few more photos and quick phony chats, she eventually found an exit into a concrete stairwell. Hitching up her dress, she made her way upwards until eventually a fire door led her out onto the roof of the hotel.

She walked over to the edge of the roof and leant on the wall, looking down over the lights of Cardiff laid out below her, breathing deeply in the cool night air, her chest loosening with each breath.

“Hello.”

Gwen jumped and turned around to find the man from the CD signing standing behind her. Rhys, she remembered. He was blocking her way out. Her chest tightened straight back up again and her heartbeat thudded intrusively in her ears.

“Stay away from me,” Gwen warned. “I’ll call security.”

“With what?” Rhys asked with a friendly smile. “No pockets for a mobile in that dress.”

“My boyfriend knows where I am,” she told him.

Rhys leant against the fire door, hands in pockets. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

“What do you want?” Gwen asked, finding that, surprisingly, she believed him.

“Where do you find a tortoise with no legs?” he asked.

Gwen stopped the response that had been on the tip of her tongue. Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it hadn’t been that. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What?” she asked. 

“Where do you find a tortoise with no legs?” Rhys repeated.

Gwen shook her head in amazement. “I have no idea.”

“Where you left it,” Rhys said with a daft grin and warm chuckle.

Gwen found herself smiling and put a hand to her mouth in surprise. Her lips were smiling by themselves and she could feel a laugh welling inside her too. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Rhys nodded back towards the exit. “You having fun?”

“Time of my life, thanks,” Gwen replied defensively.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“If you say so.” Rhys shrugged. “Just doesn’t seem like your sort of thing, that’s all.”

“How would you know?” Gwen asked.

“Gut feeling.”

He came to stand beside her, resting his elbows on the wall. The exit was clear now but she had no desire to run. For some reason, this seemed normal - standing on this roof and talking to this stranger.

Gwen looked sideways at Rhys; at the soft profile of his face that seemed somehow comforting in the angular, nipped-and-tucked world of below. “Why do I feel like I trust you?” she asked softly.

Rhys turned to face her. “Because what I said the other day is true – in your real life, you love me.”

“ _This_ is my life,” Gwen insisted.

“No, it isn’t,” Rhys countered. “Please Gwen – you have to believe me.”

He held her gaze for a few seconds. Gwen dropped her eyes. “Convince me,” she said quietly.

“In your real life, we’re married,” Rhys began. “Ok – you had this…thing…happen to you at work the day before and we really should have put it off but you were so bloody stubborn. We had to get married on that day and so we did.” He picked up speed. “And you saved my life once. Probably more times, I don’t know. You call me Rhys the Rant, ‘cause I get upset about things. You love my spag bol. Probably ‘cause you can’t cook for toffee. You tried lasagne last week and nearly burnt the house down.” Gwen saw him become lost in his memories and desperation, his voice cracking. “You’re the bravest, most incredible woman I've ever met and if you won’t trust me and believe me and come back to me, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She let the silence at the end of his speech linger a while. “I think I believe you,” she said eventually.

“You have to,” Rhys said, a trace of hope in his voice. “I mean – think about your life. This one. The fake one. Think about all those gaps. Can you remember how you got here?”

Gwen tried to think back; to remember something – anything – from her childhood. She had a mam and dad, didn’t she? Why couldn’t she picture them? How had all this started? She felt panic rising up her throat. “No, I… I was a girl and…then I was this.” Her breathing was getting shallower and fat tears swelled in her eyes. “Famous. I can’t…I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?”

“Because it’s not real,” Rhys told her calmly.

Gwen wiped at her eyes. “So what do I have to do?” she asked huskily.

“You have to die,” Rhys explained. “In your dream. And then you’ll wake up in reality.”

“How?” Gwen asked. She peered over the side of the roof. “I mean – this isn’t real, but will it hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Rhys said sadly. “Sorry.”

Gwen looked up at Rhys’ kind face and then back over the side of the building. “Oh God,” she breathed.

“But I know one thing,” Rhys told her. “I’ll be waiting for you. On the other side.”

“Ok.” Gwen turned to the wall and then turned back. She kissed him and knew that it felt right. “Here goes.”

She climbed up onto the wall and looked down at the road below, stomach lurching as the wind whipped around her, setting her dress flapping. The traffic zipping about down there looked like Matchbox cars on a toy road track. She closed her eyes and jumped, the world rushing past as she fell.


	8. Chapter 8

Gwen was falling. Gravity stretched and gripped her chest until suddenly she landed with a jolt. Her eyes flew open. She found her head resting on something hard and armrests digging into her ribs. Had she fallen asleep at the kitchen table again?

Sitting up, she pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes and looked around groggily. She had never been a morning person and her bleary eyes took a moment to register that she was in the Hub. What had happened? Why did her neck ache so badly? Three blurry figures in the room with her came slowly into focus.

“What's going on?” she asked croakily.

Rhys was standing beside her. Somewhere deep down, her mind noted that Rhys shouldn’t be in the Hub but she couldn’t quite find the reason why. He was grinning with all his teeth on show and his cheeks scrunched up – grinning the way she found utterly irresistible – and wearing, for some inexplicable reason, the mind probe that she was certain Jack had banned for human usage.

“You trusted me,” he said, which was when she noticed the tears in his eyes.

Gwen became aware of the other two people in the room. Jack and Ianto were standing behind Rhys with equally ecstatic grins on their faces.

She tried to tame her hair with her fingers and squinted up at the three of them. “Was I asleep?” she asked eventually.

In answer, Rhys threw his arms around her and pulled her into a crushing hug.

*

Jack sat at his desk watching Ianto meticulously labelling the sphere. He lowered it gently into a containment box and sealed it shut, slapping a ‘Not For Use’ sticker onto the side. He picked up his PDA and began tapping away at it.

He paused and looked up at Jack. “What was the point in it?” he asked.

Jack kicked his feet up onto his desk and linked his hands behind his head. “Who knows?” he shrugged. “Maybe it was a treatment for depression. Taking you somewhere you’d be happy.”

“In denial,” Ianto observed. “Doesn’t seem healthy.”

“Hmm,” Jack responded non-committedly.

Ianto finished recording the details on his PDA and spun the combination lock to open the safe in the corner of Jack’s office. He slid the box inside and closed the door.

“I didn’t trust you, in my fantasy,” Ianto said quietly, still concentrating on the lock with his back to Jack. “I didn’t believe you.”

“No,” Jack agreed.

“I don’t know why.” Ianto finally turned around, a troubled expression creasing his eyebrows. “I do trust you Jack.”

“I know,” Jack assured him, avoiding eye contact. He couldn’t dwell on it too much. He knew there was no one he could rely on more than Ianto Jones. Ianto had demonstrated time and time again that he trusted Jack and Jack certainly trusted Ianto more than anyone else he had met in his long life. Yet a part of Jack wondered if Ianto’s deep subconscious was right not to trust him. As he did when most things niggled at him, Jack turned to flippancy, swinging his legs down from his desk and grinning at Ianto. “Should we talk about the number of women you slept with in your dream?”

“No,” Ianto declared hastily, picking up his PDA and studying the screen intently.

“Should I be worried?” Jack asked teasingly. He wasn’t, of course. He understood that it had been Ianto’s boyhood fantasy and that sex dreams about other people were perfectly admissible. And, if he was completely honest with himself, if he hadn’t been so worried about snapping Ianto out of it, he might have pulled up a chair to watch.

“That was the fantasy of a horny fourteen-year-old,” Ianto said defensively, his ears turning pink.

Jack laughed and one eyebrow flickered upwards. “And now you’re just a horny twenty-five-year-old?”

“Exactly.” Ianto kissed Jack firmly, then turned and grabbed Jack’s coat from the stand. “Your coat, Captain.” He held it out.

“Where are we going?” Jack asked, standing up and taking his coat nevertheless.

“Dinner,” Ianto told him.

“Ok,” Jack agreed happily and followed Ianto out of the door.


End file.
